Cataclysm
by rosereddawn
Summary: Hell sticks to Dean. (Purgatory fic, themes of torture and ptsd.)


"Where is the angel?"

The rougarou makes a wretched sound. Whether there's any words in it, Benny can't tell. He's keeping a little distance himself, on the pretense of watching their backs. You never know what's about to creep out of the underbrush after a fight - though the truth of it is, any being with a lick of sense should be taking off in the opposite direction right now.

"Where is the angel?" Dean asks again, and there's a squelching noise that has Benny turn away. He studies the shadows under the branches while the rougarou screams and screams until something breaks and then he's quiet, and that's almost worse.

Benny's seen a lot of death, done a lot of killing - kinda comes with the whole monster deal - but when Dean starts asking his questions like that, it raises the hair in his neck.

"Don't think you'll be getting another answer out of this one, brother."

Dean doesn't reply. Benny waits for the sound of his footsteps drawing near, for his face to appear, expression cold and distant, demanding they move on. Next target, same question, and Benny will follow, nevermind that he doesn't like any of this. They should be getting out, not running in circles, chasing an angel that seems awfully elusive for someone wanting to be found.

Not too far off, the leaves begin to rustle. Even without Dean's siren song, the dead attract the dead, vultures and robbers and monsters trying to make do. Benny could have done with swapping his coat too, though ripped and drenched in blood as the rougarou's is now, he'll have to pass.

"Dean? We might want to get going about now."

Shouldering his weapon, he throws a look back. Dean's still crouched in the hollow under the tree, where the soil has given way and the roots are laid bare. Left and right, the legs of the rougarou are sticking out, long and unmoving. He's half-buried himself in the dirt with all that thrashing.

"You alright there, brother?"

No answer. Slowly, Benny walks a curve around the tree, leaves whispering under his boots, until he can catch a glimpse of Dean's face: blank, staring down at his kill. In the dark between the bodies, Dean's blade glistens wet and black with blood.

Some high noise wheezes in Benny's ear as he treads closer. He tries to shake it off, muscle memory of mosquitos stealing his sleep at night, until he ducks in under the branches and realizes where it's coming from.

The rougarou's not dead.

His rib cage stands open. Guts have spilled out, steaming in the cold. The heart's still pumping, the lungs are drawing breaths, and every time he sucks in air, the crushed throat makes it whistle.

Benny cuts off his head.

That finally gets to Dean. He jerks and scrambles back on hands and feet, whether from him or the corpse Benny can't say, and then pulls himself to stillness just as suddenly. Only his heart's still going like a jackhammer. Those hands don't look too steady neither when he wipes his face, leaving smears of blood and dirt.

"Benny."

"Aye, that's me." Benny offers his hand, helps him up.

The rustling in the wood's grown nearer. Twigs are snapping under a whole lot more footsteps than Benny's comfortable with. Although Dean's up on his feet, wiping the blade like nothing much happened, Benny would rather not rely on his fighting instincts right now.

"Fucker has two stomachs," he hears Dean mutter, and when he looks up his eyes are too wide and his smile too frantic. "He has two stomachs."

Lost for words, Benny gives him a pat on the back and points the direction. "Let's get out of here." He throws one last glance at the mess of a corpse and then trails after Dean, unsure whether to keep a distance or stay close.

* * *

"So, you wanna tell me what that was about?"

Dean splashes his knife in the shallow water of the river bank until he deems it clean enough, then props himself up on one knee. Puddles have formed between the scattered rocks, still and clear. Benny washes his hands in one of them.

"What was what about?"

"Well, that dissection that had you so engrossed."

Dean has a way of setting his mouth, corners pulled down, that's more definite than anything he could have said. He splashes the knife once more, then leans over a puddle and starts scraping the scruff off his cheek.

Benny looks out over the water. In the late light it's almost peaceful, the trees along the shore like he remembers the woods in autumn, leaves all pretty, yellow and red. There are no seasons down here, though there sure is a sense of death, lingering suspended in the branches. No one gets to go anywhere. No one expect Dean.

The scratch of the improvised razor makes Benny's skin crawl.

"You want to make sure you're looking good for the folks around here when you gank them?"

"Wouldn't have to gank them if they talked."

"Wouldn't have to gank none either if we went straight for the portal instead."

Dean takes his time to drag the knife up to his cheekbone, then rinses it and tips it against the stone. He looks up briefly. "You're not getting out without me and I'm not leaving without Cas."

"Right, that's what you said." There's no point in pressing the matter further, Benny understands that much.

When Dean resumes shaving, he takes a stroll back to the dirt track that led them to the shore. Thick-leaved bushes grow in the muddy soil, their milk cool and soothing on skin. For lack of anything better to do, he collects some of those leaves.

By the time he returns with a good handful, stepping carefully over the rocks to avoid the deeper puddles and get water into his worn-through boots, Dean's running two fingertips up this throat, feeling for any missed stubble. He's still got fat drops of blood sitting under his hairline, has got it splattered all the way down his chest. There's no point even trying to stay clean in Purgatory though Benny sure hopes Dean doesn't intend on sticking around long enough to accept that part.

"You might want to try these." He breaks one of the leaves and squeezes out the milk, rubs it between his fingertips.

Dean nods. "Thanks," he says, and it's just a brief moment as he gives the leaves a sniff and scrunches his nose so that the hard lines soften, and in those big eyes of his Benny sees someone younger and kind.

* * *

Later, when they're heading towards a set of caves Benny means to pick as quarters for the night, shelter from both elements and passer-bys, he throws a glance over his shoulder to Dean trailing along behind. "Thought you said your Daddy was a hunter."

Eyes on the roots and stones sticking out of the ground, Dean nods. "He was."

"And he never taught you how to kill a rougarou?"

"Of course he did."

The ground scrunches and in the trees above the night awakes, its howls and hoots drawn out and eerie. Benny keeps walking.

"Almost got eaten by one a couple years back. My, uh, my brother killed it. Set it on fire."

There's a hint of a drawl sneaking into his voice at the last part, something that only comes out with the wide smiles, rare as they are. Might be pride, Benny guesses. He likes the sound of it.

* * *

"My dad never did that," Dean offers. "He was a hunter. He wasted those things. Wasn't all clean kills, but not - not like that." He's rolled over, with his back turned on Benny and his shoulders pulled high, curled up in a dent on the ground. The fire's burned down to a dim glow.

Quietly, Benny pulls himself into an upright position. The slouch he's sunk into over the last hour hasn't been all that comfortable anyway, not against a naked stone wall. He brushes off the splinters and wood shavings covering the front of his shirt.

He hears Dean inhale, but outside the wind picks up and sweeps into the cave, wheezing and whistling, brushing dust over the ember, and Dean coughs and doesn't say any more.

Benny turns the small knife in his hand and resumes carving. The block's too brittle to get more than the crude outline of an animal out of it. That's all right, though. It's a way to pass the time. He still remembers his granddad, old and deaf, pipe in the corner of his mouth, sitting on the back porch with a block of wood and his carving knife in hand, claiming he never heard a word Granny said until she called him in for dinner.

"I was going to finish it," Dean adds eventually.

"Yeah, I know."

"It's just the stomachs."

Benny throws a glance at him. He scratches a little more definition into what's supposed to be the mane of this thing he's creating, makes sure to keep his voice low and even when he speaks. "Was that the first time you seen one like that?"

Dean snorts like it's funny. "Well, you're all coming here, right?"

Benny furrows his eyebrows. A good deal of the mane comes off in splinters. He doesn't know how to reply, and Dean's voice gets harsher, louder.

"I mean, when you die, where d'you go? Vamps and weres and rougarous - if even one of you is in Hell, I sure didn't get to see it. All strictly human anatomy."

The neck breaks off too. Benny puts the knife down. Something in the ember crackles.

Dean's clothes rustle as he twitches and then abruptly he sits up. He pats the pockets of his jacket like he's searching for something and grinds his jaw when he can't find it. In the dim glow, his face is all shadows. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, takes a breath, and then adds more quietly, "Made a deal to save my brother and got what I bargained for." The smile's bitter. "You wanna move on? 'Cause I'm not getting any more sleep here."

Benny nods. By the time he's got to his feet, clothes brushed off and knife back in his pocket, Dean's already walked ahead, out into the night.

It's barely daybreak. Only a hint of grey smears the starless sky and flattens the sprawling woods into silhouettes. Dean curses as he slips on the dew-wet stones.

"Keep close," Benny says. "There should be a path somewhere further up there. I'll see if I can get us there."

"Alright. Okay."

Benny's all too aware of the tremor that still runs through Dean's body with every frantic beat of his heart, aware of the slow, controlled breaths that haven't calmed it yet. "I'm sorry about what happened to you," he says, the plain and helpless phrase all he can come up with.

"Yeah," Dean says and hangs his head.

For lack of anything better to offer, Benny points him towards the hillside. Thick knotted roots stick out of the ground like stepping stones. "The trees open up some when we get there. It'll be easier to walk."

They're halfway up, Benny trying to find some leverage by grabbing a branch overhead, when Dean says, "Cas got me out."

Benny holds up. He waits, but it's all Dean says. Already he's moving past him, hands out in front reaching for something to hold on to, boots dragging through the soil.

"Alright." Benny gets a better grip on the branch and keeps climbing. "Okay. We'll find him."


End file.
